The Letter Of My Life
by orangerachel
Summary: Mike writes a letter to his psychologist, describing the cause of his Multiple Personality Disorder. A oneshot, Mike backstory. Rated for some swearing.


**A/N**

**Hi guys! **

** Lookie, my writer's block temporarily faded and I wrote this! This is my first non-South Park story (It's Total Drama Island), so hopefully you guys like it. I don't know where this idea came from...I think it's because I'm starting my psychology course in two weeks; and I don't know why I picked Total Drama of all fandoms...probably because I watched all of seasons 4 and 5 out of boredom during Christmas vacation.**

**This is basically supposed to be Mike's back-story (made up by me, of course), explained in a nutshell in a letter to his psychologist. I dunno...I feel like Mike needed a deep back-story.**

**DISCLAIMER:**** I own nothing. (Well, besides the made up psychologist, but he's not that important)**

**WARNINGS:**** Swearing.**

**Enjoy! :)**

**~.~**

Hey Dr. Williams!

My friends Cameron and Zoey suggested that I write to you and, well, apologize for storming out of your office in a frenzy last week. I know that you are only trying to help me, but I get kind of sensitive when it comes to the subject of my M.P.D. I'm aware that you were asking me questions to help me with my disorder, but I took it the wrong way. Not only am I apologizing in this letter, but I'll also cover the questions that went unanswered during our last appointment.

I usually get two responses to my illness - either curiosity or just plain...I don't know...disgust? The latter feeling is for obvious reasons; my personalities tend to weird people out and they do, admittedly, get old after a while. The first response - the curiosity - is the more common of the two reactions though. I can never remember what happens during one of my episodes, but the faces of the people that I'm around afterwards are priceless! The people that witness the switches always have the same baffled look on their faces - every single one of them - as if they just saw another head sprout from the side of my neck or something. It's actually hilarious! But in all seriousness, I'll answer your questions: _"Who? What? When? Where? Why?"_

Well, I haven't always been like this. Believe it or not, I was actually a completely normal kid at one point. I hung out with my friends at school, played street hockey with the guys in the neighborhood, and even had one of those kindergarten girlfriends - in one of those cutesy little kid relationships. My life was great!

I lived with my mom, my dad, and my seventeen-year-old cousin Vito. Vito originally lived in New Jersey, but his parents- my aunt and uncle- died in a car wreck, so he moved up here to live with us. Vito was like an older brother to me and he was my role model; he was good looking, athletic, popular, and had tons and tons of girlfriends. Actually, I'm pretty sure that at one point, he was bringing home a new girlfriend every week. Back on topic, me and Vito did everything together...well, when he wasn't partying, drinking, or stoned.

One day, when my mom was on a business trip and my dad was stuck in a meeting, they asked Vito to pick me up from soccer practice. My memory of this day is kind of a blur...I remember I got into the car with Vito...he said he was going to pick up his girlfriend on the way home (who lived in the pits of the next city over)...we drove into the bad section of the other city...stopped at a red light...and got attacked. Vito was violently ripped out of the car by a huge, blonde guy wearing brass knuckles, and was assaulted. After the beating, Vito was left on the side of the road, all limp and bloody...his head cracked all the way open...he died right before my eyes. I watched in horror as the leader and two other gang members continued to strike my already-dead cousin. It was then that I was roughly removed from the car by another guy in the gang. In contrast to the leader, this member was tall, thin, and had dark hair that covered half of his face. He told me to _'Get the fuck out of the car, or I was next.'_ Let me tell you, I've never run so fast in my life. I ran all the way home at full speed - a 6 and a half mile trip.

On the day of Vito's funeral, we were informed that the gang members were captured. The cops gave me their names and pictures to confirm their identities. Apparently, the leader head was named Parker, the two other members were named Axel and Stan, and the guy who spared me (?) was named Mallory. Apparently, they had been convicts before, but were on unsupervised probation. Dumbest fucking law system ever.

Anyway, with Vito out of my life, my parents working full time, having no pets, and being an only child, I became lonely and depressed. The trauma from the incident also made me a social wreck. I would constantly have flashbacks of the event and have to leave school for the day. I lost most of my friends and soon found myself completely alone.

My mom told me in the early stages of my mourning that Vito was still with me- I just couldn't see him. I would sometimes ask Vito for luck before a soccer game or test, but as time progressed and I got lonelier, I began to talk to Vito more and more. I don't exactly remember why I did this, but one day when I was having a depression spell, I pretended to be Vito. That's when it began to happen. I started to constantly switch between being Mike and Vito, but only when I was alone in my bedroom. I was only 7 years old.

When I was about nine, there was a huge story on the news about how a dangerous convict escaped from the local prison and was on the loose. Everyone in town was on edge for about two weeks, until the convict's corpse was found in a nearby river. The convict's identity was revealed later that night... and it was Mallory. I don't know why, but I felt as if I had some kind of connection to the guy. That night, I found myself taking turns talking to both him and my deceased cousin. Similar to the situation with Vito, I found myself switching between myself and Mallory - who I began to call 'Mal' for short.

The switching between myself and my two other personas became more and more frequent, and I soon became a social outcast at school. No one really liked me much, and even my "friends" on the soccer team began to shun me. I soon quit soccer and took up gymnastics (which I had always considered social suicide for a guy, but by that point, I couldn't get any lower on the social ladder). Even in gymnastics I was alienated. The only person that actually liked me was my vault partner, Svetlana.

Svetlana was this cute, little blonde Russian girl who moved here because of some family issues or something. We were the same age, and even though we didn't go to school together, we hung out a lot. Svetlana, like me, didn't have many friends, mostly because she wasn't very fluent in English. She often had to pause for a moment or two in the middle of a conversation to mentally translate what I had said. It was an unusual friendship, but a friendship nonetheless.

Eventually, the problems in Russia sorted themselves out, and she moved back within three months. She gave me her favorite lipstick to remember her by- a ruby red color that she wore every day, and promised to talk to me daily.

...I never spoke to her again.

Around the same time, I had this history teacher that I kind of looked up to. His name was Mr. Arthur, but he let me call him Chester. I would have never imagined that I would become close to a teacher, but he'd always talk to me about philosophy, and muse about "old times", when everything was apparently much better than it is nowadays. It was actually kind of funny when he went all nostalgic- he'd talk about going diners with his girlfriends, paying a nickel for food, and having a milk man and fruit vendor stop by his house at least once a week. He despised technology, and always shot disgusted glares at people who used it.

Old Chester retired when I was twelve and again, I was left with no one. I went through all of sixth and seventh grade completely friendless. Like all the other people that had "abandoned" me, I began to go through phases in which I would act like these people. When I wanted to be Svetlana, I would put on her red lipstick and practice gymnastics in my bedroom. When I wanted to be Chester, I would complain about technology and talk about "the good old days."

In eighth grade, we got an exchange student from Australia named Manny Toba Smith. He thought (for some weird reason) that in the United States, when people asked for your name in casual conversation, they wanted to know both your first and middle name. Because of this blunder, everyone - including the teachers - began to call him 'Manitoba', thinking that that was his actual name.

Manitoba instantly became popular (especially with the girls) because of his accent. When he learned that this was the only reason that he had "friends", (especially since- and I hate to say this about a friend but- he was a sexist douche), he called them all "shallower than a bandicoot's burrow" and dumped them all to hang out with me. We instantly became really good friends. We would often explore the forest behind my house and camp out there for entire weekends.

One afternoon during that summer vacation, I was watching TV when my mom noiselessly entered the house. I knew that something was wrong for two reasons: firstly, because she was silent. When she came home, she would normally ask me about my day and bother me about being a lazy bum while she was out working. Secondly, she was home about four hours earlier than usual. I warily went to talk to her, and as I did, I noticed that she was tearing up. When I asked her what was wrong, she ran upstairs and slammed the door. I then texted Manitoba, asking him if we could hang out- as I didn't want to be involved in whatever was going on.

Oddly, he never texted back.

When my dad came home within the next hour, I knew something was up. I confronted him about it; telling him how strange mom was acting. My dad took a deep breath and calmly told me that Manitoba had died that afternoon in a freak accident. As he was exploring an abandoned mill at the edge of town, the building collapsed with him in it. Believe me when I tell you this- I don't think I have ever cried so hard in my life . I don't even remember what happened - I must have blacked out. I woke up in the ER with a full-body cast and not even the slightest memory of what had happened the night before.

The doctor's informed my parents that I must have tried to commit suicide - as I had apparently wandered into the neighboring dilapidated mill. I was asleep though, so... I'm not entirely sure how that happened. Mr. and Mrs. Smith visited me that afternoon and gave me Manitoba's prized exploration fedora; and a week after their son's funeral (which I, unfortunately, was unable to attend because of my physical state), they moved back to Sydney.

As you probably guessed, I began to act like Manitoba, and he became another one of my five personas.

Although these personas all have a sentimental value to me, I would really like to get rid of them...or at least make them more...I don't know, mellow? I know that by asking this vague question, you intended for me to analyze my life to find the root of my problem, and I think I was successfully able to. Hopefully now that we have a better understanding of my situation, we can work on a cure together.

I'm sorry for flipping last week, and thank you for taking the time to read this letter...I guess you could call it the letter of my life.

Well, see you soon!

_-Multiple Mike_

**~.~**

**A/N**

**Well that was that. I don't usually write dark stories, but this one was kind of called for. I hope you all liked it!**

**Review and stuff! Flames will be used to roast my marshmallows.**

**Bye! :D**


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